He forgot that a gay party of young
people were assembling in the next room; he was oblivious of the noise
of moving chairs, the creaking floor, loud laughter, and the hum of
voices. Fate had set him aside from the rest of the world, he told
himself; he was living two lives, one in the present, the other in the
past.
Westerfelt was suddenly reminded of where he was by the sound of some
one tuning a fiddle in the sitting-room. He put the letter into his
pocket, rose, and brushed his hair before the mirror. There was a
clatter of heavy boots in the entry opposite his door; four or five
young men had come out to wash their hands in the pans on the long
shelf; they were passing jokes, laughing loudly, and playfully striking
at one another. Two of them clinched arms and began to wrestle.
Westerfelt heard them panting and grunting as they swayed back and
forth, till the struggle was ended by one of them shoving the other
violently against the wall; Westerfelt opened the door. A stout,
muscular young giant was pinning a small man to the weather-boarding
and making a pretence at choking him.
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